


His realms purged of evil

by WahlBuilder



Category: Gaunt's Ghosts - Dan Abnett, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Astartes Flirting, Awkwardness, M/M, Rare Pairings, Short, rarepair hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 09:44:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10874187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WahlBuilder/pseuds/WahlBuilder
Summary: Merrt has someone watching his practice.





	His realms purged of evil

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LydiaJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LydiaJ/gifts).



The weight of the rifle was slightly foreign, like a lover Merrt hadn’t held for a long time. It was true, though—and oh, was he glad to be able to earn the right to hold it again! He couldn’t make himself at peace with the fact that he would never become as good as he used to be. But at least he was useful again. Trying to learn to be useful again.

The shot rang like a cheerful salute, and Merrt nodded to himself. The round hit the tin just like he wanted. Just like he planned.

Sensitivity was returning to his jaws, making them ache. He had used just enough of the relaxant for an exercise, nothing more. Saliva dribbled down his chin and throat, and Merrt sat up and wiped some of it with his sleeve—and froze, hearing a soft rustle.

He had completely forgotten about his watcher.

The world was speeding up around him—even though the only movement was the knocked tin can making an arc on the deck. Merrt tried to scramble to his feet in his tiny nest on the gantry when his rifle was taken out of his hands and then he was wrapped in a firm one-arm grip, pulled out of the nest, and lowered on the deck.

Merrt wasn’t a short man, but he felt tiny compared to the White Scar.

Who didn’t let him go.

When Merrt had wondered about the Astartes back when he had been a child, he had thought they would be cold to the touch. Emperor only knew why he had spent a good few days thinking that thought, wondering whether an Astartes would be cold everywhere or some particular parts would be even colder or warmer. His older, teenage self would have snorted at that, and probably said that his preferences had been obvious even then.

Now he knew that Astartes were very, very hot to the touch—or maybe it was just this particular Astartes. Sar Af was radiating heat. He could be used on some particularly icy worlds instead of a tent heater.

Merrt tried to look at that scene from the outsider’s perspective: him, in all his slack-jawed glory, with the collar of his shirt wet from his saliva—breathless in an Astartes’s arms. Stricken like by his first date. For a long time Merrt had thought Astartes never took off their armour, but for some reason, either very cruel or very benevolent, Sar Af often wore a simple white tunic when he visited Merrt’s solitary practice.

Like he was wearing right now. There was a colourful clay necklace in the sharp angle of the open collar, blue and red beads, faded from time or exposure to elements. Sar Af was easily twice as wide as Merrt himself, maybe more, and nearly every visible bit of skin was covered with scars. Merrt had wondered about the extent of some of them during very lonely nights.

The White Scar’s eyes were surprisingly ordinary, the indescribable colour that changes with the weather, time, and emotions.

Human eyes.

Merrt’s jaw stung, reminding him of his place, and he curled his fingers over the rifle. It didn’t budge in the White Scar’s hand.

_What is it, my lord?_ he wanted to ask. He worked his jaw, but his tongue was thick and sluggish in his mouth, and all he could do was gaze at the Astartes and hope he would understand.

What if somebody walked in on them standing like this?

A flush started creeping up Merrt’s neck, spreading like fire to his ears. If it was true that Astartes could see heat signatures of objects around them, Sar Af would certainly notice.

A slow smile curved the White Scar’s lips, and Merrt knew he was busted.

He ceased attempts to return his rifle. He looked at the deck and wished for it to crumble under him. He wished to be crushed for his disrespect—what else did he deserve? Being given a second chance by Commissar Hark—and then another, of a different kind, by the White Scar himself—and he destroyed it because he couldn’t contain himself and _not_ become flustered in the presence of the Astartes who had given him that chan—

Fingers touched his jaws.

It was not the demanding grip of the first time when the White Scar had held him in place to inspect his ugly prosthetic—no, it was worse. It was gentle.

It was like taking a shot, when the world slowed down and narrowed to the tunnel between Merrt and his mark. Only now all his attention was on that point of contact—two fingers drawing a slow, lazy line over his bones, catching on the crude edge of the prosthetic.

Merrt’s mouth went dry.

‘You are doing well, Rhen,’ the Astartes purred, and the sound vibrated in Merrt’s body, pressed so close to Sar Af’s chest. ‘I should reward you.’

Merrt’s knees were giving up, and any moment now he was going to—to _swoon_. Then shoot himself. From shame.

The fingers were hooked under his prosthetic, and his chin was lifted—gently, and Sar Af rumbled, ‘But I shall wait until you regain your ability to speak. I wish you to tell me whether you want my reward.’ And the huge arm, that was _still wrapped around Merrt’s waist_ , tightened for a moment.

And Merrt knew what was being offered. He hoped he was right. He really, really hoped. He would have cursed his damned jaws, it came out as a groan—and then finally, finally he worked his muscles enough to croak the single most important thing.

‘ _Yes_.’


End file.
